


Everything I Am Is Yours

by TravelingSong



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, What else is new, and Aziraphale is as soft as ever, devious plan according to Crowley? minor miracles to spend more time with the angel, in which Crowley comes up with a devious plan, the pining is strong in this one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-08-13 03:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20167642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: "And then, suddenly, Crowley finds himself in a bed that Aziraphale has miracled up for him, in the middle of the night, surprisingly sober and completely exhausted.And then, with his mind slowly drifting off, he starts to wonder if after all these years, these decades, these millennia, afterthere is no our sideandyou go too fast for me, Aziraphale has finally caught up with him."





	1. What Have You Done?

**Author's Note:**

> I’m absolutely overwhelmed by your incredibly kind response to my first fic for this fandom. So much so that I felt inspired enough to start a multi-chapter piece. Hopefully, it will be just as enjoyable.

It all happens rather quickly. 

Yes, considering there are 6,000 years still to come, it all happens in the blink of an eye:

“You _what_?” 

“I gave it away.”

Well. That’s unexpected. That’s new, the demon thinks. That's brilliant. 

He goes on, the angel, tells him his side of the story and _don't let the sun go down on you here_ and _I hope I didn't do the wrong thing_ and Crawly can't help it, he comforts him, speaks words of encouragement, and the angel thanks him, and _once again_ Crawly can't help it and he smiles, grins, virtually beams in an utterly undemonic kind of way. 

_That stupid, stupid angel_, he thinks. 

And then: _That stupid, stupid, marvelous, kindhearted, beautiful angel. What have you done..._

(...to me?)

And then the clouds gather above them and a blindingly white wing shields him from the rain. 

This is how everything changes.

This is how his universe begins. 

* * *

Of course, a number of things have happened since then. Or haven't.

Crowley's changed his name, for one.

Also, the Apocalypse. He stopped it, the boy, just in time. And so Crowley and Aziraphale can still enjoy their lunches at the Ritz and Aziraphale can continue not selling books and Crowley can continue frightening his plants. 

So in the grand scheme of things, it's all good, really. 

Except that for Crowley, the Apocalypse had been just a minor bump in the road compared to the six agony-filled millennia that came before it.

Six millennia of trying to get a particular angel's attention. 

They'd been in Ancient Rome, they'd survived the Middle Ages, they'd bantered with Shakespeare, they'd made it through the French Revolution and the first World War, they'd made it through the second, they'd seen empires rise and collapse, they'd suffered through every questionable fashion choice humanity had come up with. 

For Crowley, history boiled down to _where was the angel at the time_? 

For Crowley, life on earth meant life with Aziraphale.

There had been times where he hadn't been all that subtle about it, either. For him, it's always been a fine line between nonchalance and devotion, between _I won't even think about you_ and _I lost my best friend. _He had walked into a church for Aziraphale. He had walked into a burning building. (And yes, the symbolism isn't lost on him.) But even now, even after they've warded off the literal end of the world, he can't really bring himself to admit the truth.

Love, of course, was just another four-letter word.

* * *

In retrospect, _I won't even think about you_ really had been the most blatant lie Crowley had ever told.

Given the fact he was a demon, that clearly was saying something.

* * *

Currently, Aziraphale and Crowley are occupying the park bench of their choice, enjoying the soft summer breeze, watching the ducks on the pond. It had been Crowley's idea to meet up here, for convenience, naturally, and not at all for sentimental reasons, and the angel had followed his invitation quite enthusiastically, excited to tell Crowley about a first edition he had recently acquired. 

Crowley didn't care much about books but he did care _for Aziraphale_ talking about books and so it was always a win for the both of them, any new addition to the angel's shop. 

"It's in tip-top condition. I just have to make sure the customers don't get their dusty hands on it."

"Because what kind of salesman would you be if customers actually got to take a look at the products you offer?" Crowley responds with a spark of sarcasm the angel misses completely. 

"Precisely." He sits up straight and smoothes the fabric of his waistcoat. "Well, I should probably get going."

"Are you going back to the shop?"

"I was going to."

"Care for some sweets on the way?" Crowley inquires innocently. 

"Sweets?" The angel raises his eyebrows. "You're usually not the type for sweets, Crowley."

"Well, might as well try something new. Besides, angel, you like them." It's an airtight argument. 

"I suppose the shop can stay closed without me for a while longer." He gets up and urges Crowley to do the same, smiles brightly. "Lead the way, dear boy."

Crowley is so distracted by the endearment, he almost misses the way Aziraphale's hand briefly brushes against his own as they leave the park.

Almost.

* * *

For reference, all of this — the book conversations, the bench, the prospect of pastries — is part of Crowley's cunning and wily and positively evil plan to tempt Aziraphale into spending more time with him. 

(Had Crowley paid actual attention, he'd have noticed that the angel really didn't require all that much tempting.)

* * *

"What do you think?"

"It's not bad."

"Come on now, Crowley. Don't let your emotions get the best of you."

The demon glares at Aziraphale and takes another bite. 

"It's quite good. Not as sweet as I expected."

"The rhubarb counteracts the sweetness of the strawberries."

For a moment, Crowley has to fight the impulse to throw _the rhubarb counteracts the sweetness of the strawberries_ back into the angel's face like a certain _obviously_ back in 1862 but he has to admit that Aziraphale is right. It's a delicate balance between bitter and sweet and buttery. Tart was a good choice. 

"This is a lovely place. How did you find it?"

"Oh, I—"

The server interrupts them just in time, pours them more tea. Grants Crowley a few more seconds to come up with a good enough explanation.

(Of course.

Of course Crowley actively searches for these places, of course he reads the reviews, of course he makes sure they have the angel’s favorites, of course he leaves nothing to chance, of course, of course, of course. 

Of course he would never let Aziraphale know about any of this.)

"Saw it mentioned on the telly this morning."

"Ah. Well, this was a wonderful idea. Thank you, Crowley. Some might say this was rather ni—"

"Stop it, angel. Don't ruin a perfectly good afternoon."

Aziraphale nods knowingly and Crowley thinks quite confidently, quite foolishly:

_Yes, it's all going according to plan._


	2. But You Do

"This is ridiculous."

"It's just traffic, angel."

"At eleven in the morning. How can traffic be such a nuisance at eleven in the morning?" 

"We're in London. Traffic here is _always_ a nuisance."

He wasn't completely wrong about that. But it wasn't the full truth either. 

The full truth was that Crowley had caused a bit of a traffic jam. The plan and all. Spending more time with Aziraphale. Evil. 

"I mean, what's going on up there?" the angel says, resentment rising in his voice, trying to catch a glimpse out the window.

"Accident, maybe."

There had not been any accident. An accident would have meant people got hurt. In fact, the road had simply been closed off by one particularly needy demon. 

"Really no point in getting worked up about it," he continues. "Nothing we can do."

That was, of course, not the truth either. They were an angel and a demon, after all, with quite a few powers between them. 

"You seem awfully patient this morning, Crowley."

"I have nowhere to be."

"No evil deeds that need to be taken care of?"

"Nah, angel. Nothing on the list."

One traffic jam is quite enough for today, he thinks. He's gone soft.

"Well, then. We should find a way to pass the time." The angel stares at him expectantly, receives nothing in response and huffs. "We could listen to some music maybe? You like music, don't you? What's the bebop one again? Velvet Under-something?"

"Underground. Velvet Underground."

"Yes, that's right."

"It's not bebop, angel."

"Well, let's give it a listen then."

Before Crowley can object, the car stereo turns itself on, _whenever this world is cruel to me,_ and it's not Velvet Underground and oh, _ooh_, he swears he will make the Bentley suffer, _I got you to help me forgive, _he will make the Bentley regret every song choice it's ever made.

"This is quite lovely. What a sweet sentiment," the angel says and his fingertips are tapping along to the music and his body, _his body_, is practically wiggling. 

It's the most endearing thing Crowley has ever seen. He thinks he needs to get out of this car immediately.

(The truth is, the things he feels overwhelm him sometimes. Demons really aren't built to experience this kind of affection. Even with 6,000 years of practice.)

Out of nowhere, the vehicles in front of them restart their engines. 

"Seems like we're moving again," Crowley says innocently.

"What a pity." _You're my best friend._ "I was starting to rather enjoy it."

Maybe, Crowley thinks, he'll spare the Bentley this time.

* * *

There's a particular moment the demon replays in his head over and over. 

It's a small thing, really. Minuscule. Infinitesimal. 

He doubts Aziraphale even remembers. 

The circumstances had been as follows: A bandstand. A looming Apocalypse. A proposition to leave the planet. 

_We can go off together. _

The one thing Crowley can't forget is this: Hope.

For just an instant, Aziraphale's voice, his intonation, the expression on his face had all been so very clear.

_Go off together?_

As if they had finally found their way out, as if they had found a future, as if an eternity by each other's side seemed like a plausible, logical, _ineffable_ possibility. 

He should have known better. 

Hope had always been such a dangerous thing. 

* * *

The other incident he can't shake from his memory has a lot to do with them sitting very closely on a bus in the middle of the night but that's a different story entirely. 

* * *

Somehow, they always end up at the bookshop. 

Crowley has gradually taken up the full length of Aziraphale's couch, stretching out further and further as the hours tick by, a perfect position to observe the angel seated in the armchair across from him.

"I should head over to the flat. It's late," he says but it's unconvincing. He doesn't make any attempt to move.

"You could always stay here. You look awfully tired."

"I'm fine, angel."

"I'm sure you are, Crowley. But just the same, the offer stands. Plus, it's raining out. You'll get soaked."

Crowley thinks: _Not with your wing hovering above me. _

Crowley says: "It's dry in the car."

"Driving in this weather can't possibly be a good idea."

The demon's eyes close on their own account. It's warm here, it's comfortable, the angel is nearby. He should simply concede.

(He should do quite a lot of things.)

Crowley had, after all, offered Aziraphale the very same thing once. _You can stay at my place if you like._ Of course, he could blame that on the averted Apocalypse and emotional distress and not thinking straight. But now, now there's no excuse to be found. And the rain simply wasn't good enough. No, now the idea of staying leads straight to a very real, very terrifying, very sickeningly wistful notion: _I don't ever want to leave again. _

"You really want me to stay that badly, huh?" Crowley says with mock derision to fill the silence and he opens his eyes again and meets the angel's gaze and Aziraphale doesn't hesitate and doesn't flinch and doesn't give it a second thought. 

"Yes." Completely sincere. 

Oh. 

And then: "There's a bed in my room."

The demon almost falls off the couch. 

"But you don't sleep." 

"No. But you do. So I put one in there just in case."

"In case I—"

"In case you want to rest. Like right now. We do spend quite a lot of time together in the shop, after all."

"Right. Yeah, sure." Crowley's mumbling. His head is spinning.

"So?"

"So what?"

"Will you be staying?" 

"I mean, I—"

"Splendid."

At some point over the last few minutes, Crowley has lost the ability to form any kind of coherent response. Still trying to process their conversation, he gets up and heads towards Aziraphale's bedroom before pausing.

"And what will you be doing?" 

"Oh, I'll be out here reading. Don't you worry. I'll make sure you're safe." He smiles reassuringly and Crowley thinks he might _fall _all over again, right there, on the spot. "Off you go then."

And then, suddenly, Crowley finds himself in a bed that Aziraphale has miracled up for him, in the middle of the night, surprisingly sober and completely exhausted. 

And then, with his mind slowly drifting off, he starts to wonder if after all these years, these decades, these millennia, after _there is no our side_ and _you go too fast for me_, Aziraphale has finally caught up with him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated :)


	3. Magnificent Illusions

Crowley dreams of Aziraphale. Of course. 

Crowley dreams of forgiveness and drunken honesty and car rides and saving the world and smitten looks and _you can stay at my place if you like_ and _yes, I'd like that very much_.

Magnificent illusions. 

He sleeps for three more days after that. It's a rather pleasant experience. 

* * *

"I have something for you," the angel tells him over lunch. 

"Huh?" 

"Just a little something. Saw it over at Brick Lane market the other day. We should go together some time, they really do have a marvelous collection of antiques and—"

The demon is still stuck on the first part. (He completely misses the invitation, too.)

"You got me a gift?"

"I did indeed."

"What is it?" 

"Patience, dear boy. It's back at the shop still."

"Now that's just unfair, angel. Teasing a gift like that and making me wait. Little demonic, some would say."

Aziraphale shakes his head.

"It's nothing of the sort. I simply wanted to keep it in a safe spot. The city is awfully crowded. I could have lost it. Someone could have taken it from me."

"Sure, sure." 

"Really, Crowley. I would have expected a bit more—"

"Thank you," he interrupts him. "That's…kind of you."

Aziraphale's eyes light up and Crowley thinks it's breathtaking.

"We can meet at the shop later on then."

"Alright."

"Wonderful. Well, now that's settled, how about some dessert?"

The angel takes another look at the menu and Crowley has to force himself to stop the giddy expression that's threatening to break his completely composed exterior. 

* * *

For the remainder of the afternoon, Crowley curses time for moving so slowly and Aziraphale for being, well, Aziraphale. 

* * *

"Drink?" the angel asks him when Crowley walks into the shop later that day.

"How long have you known me?"

"Well, it's been about six thou—"

"That was a rhetorical question, angel. Yes, I'd like a drink."

Aziraphale hurries into the kitchen and Crowley makes himself comfortable. He would never admit it but he feels a bit on edge, still doesn't have a clue what all this gift-giving-business could be about. 

When Aziraphale returns, it's with two glasses in one hand and a dust-covered bottle in the other. 

"That bottle looks ancient," Crowley notes.

"Oh, it is."

"And whatever is in there is still drinkable?"

"I suppose we will find out."

With a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale fills up their glasses, hands one over to Crowley and raises the other in a toast.

"Cheers, dear boy. To the world. And to pleasant company." He takes a quick sip, lets the wine roll over his tongue and nods contentedly. "Still rather good."

"What?"

"I said the wine is still rather good."

"Oh."

"Everything alright, Crowley? 

"Huh?"

"You're staring at me. Are you sure you're quite alright?"

The irony of it all was, of course, that Crowley had, perhaps, never been better. Between the prospect of gifts and _to pleasant company _and the sight of Aziraphale savoring an outrageously old drink, he was doing just fine. Marvelous, really. Positively tempted by an angel.

The problem, on the other hand, was that he couldn't possibly put any of that into words. Which led to the most eloquent response the demon could muster: 

"Tickety-boo."

With a big and bright and heartfelt smile, a smile so blinding that Crowley is ever grateful for his sunglasses, an _oh-you_-smile incarnate, Aziraphale holds his gaze for a moment before he gets up and retrieves something from his desk. 

"Here we are. The reason for your visit."

Crowley thinks the reason for his visit is standing right in front of him but he decides not to comment. Slowly, he takes the package from Aziraphale's hands and puts it into his lap. 

"You wrapped it?"

"Presents are to be wrapped, Crowley. What good is a present without a little mystery?"

"There's no occasion." 

"The world still exists. That surely must be a good enough occasion."

Crowley makes an affirmative noise. 

"Can I open it?"

"That's what it's there for. I do want to see your reaction, after all."

Crowley can't remember the last time someone has handed him a hand-wrapped gift. He had heard of the concept, naturally, had watched the humans make it a cherished tradition, birthdays and Christmas and anniversaries, colorful boxes and packages, whole stacks of it. He had never understood any of it. Until now. 

(Maybe someday, Crowley thinks, he could celebrate some kind of anniversary with Aziraphale. Happy _6000-Years-Since-You-Gave-Away-Your-Flaming-Sword-And-I-Couldn't-Take-My-Eyes-Off-Of-You-Anniversary_ sure had a lovely ring to it.)

(Most days, he is rather grateful the angel can't read his thoughts. It's all utterly embarrassing.)

Very slowly, Crowley tears at the edges of the wrapping paper — it's all much too precious for being ripped apart completely — and finally holds its contents in his hands. 

A frame. And a picture. And two protagonists sitting on a bench, captured from behind, one with his head resting on the other's shoulder. And oh. _Oh, oh, oh_. 

"It's a painting!" Aziraphale exclaims excitedly. (Think: _To be! I mean, not to be! Come on, Hamlet! Buck up! _Hand motions and all.)

"I can see that, angel."

"Of us! Well, not exactly. But it did remind me of you. And me, of course. Together."

"It's—"

"It's like our bench in St James, you see? Isn't that delightful? Even the color of our hair. What are the chances?"

The chances are Crowley might melt into the floor.

"Yes, it's—"

"And it would go so beautifully with the Mona Lisa in your flat. Don't you think it would?"

No, he thinks. 

_No, I'll find a better spot for it._

Crowley thinks for the next few weeks he'll be incredibly busy. 

He thinks he'll throw out his television and he'll put up the painting instead and then he'll stare at it, he'll stare and stare and stare, and he'll try to come to terms with the fact that Aziraphale had spotted this particular painting, this beautiful, marvelous, perfect painting, and that he had thought of Crowley then and decided, _yes_, _yes, that's how I see us_, _that's what I want us to be_. Together and close and comfortable. 

Crowley feels, in a very human kind of way, incredibly moved by the thought. 

And before he can talk himself out of it, before he can make a fool of himself and ramble on about how grateful he is and what this means to him in terribly ineloquent fashion, before he can even look Aziraphale in the eyes, he steps forward and puts his arms around the angel.

And for the first time since his fall, Crowley feels saved. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos and comments. Feedback, as always, is greatly appreciated. For anyone interested, [HERE](https://www.jamescoatesfineart.co.uk/listing/474324778/couple-painting-couple-on-bench-art) is a reference for the painting Aziraphale gives to Crowley.


	4. Not Like That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the sweet comments. There's still a few chapters to come. Enjoy!

Funny how ever since Eden, Crowley has wondered what it might feel like to hug an angel. Well, one particular angel. 

He's wondered if it would burn. (It does, but not like that.)

He's wondered if it would leave a mark. (It does, but not _like that_.) 

He's wondered if it would feel as good as he assumed. (It doesn't. It feels much better.)

Hugging Aziraphale is like the morning sun. It's soft and warm and _oh so easy_ to get used to. It makes you want to _stay_. 

It is, for lack of a better word, divine. Hugging and being hugged back. Crowley thinks he'll need decades to recover. Crowley thinks, that maybe, maybe, maybe, it means that Aziraphale feels something, too. 

And _maybe_ that's why his mind initiates a very Crowley-like reaction when he finally pulls back: 

Panic.

Not like a fire in a bookshop, no. But almost philosophical. The big questions. _What if? What if it's pity? What if nothing will ever feel as good as this? And what if, against all odds, the angel feels the same way?_

And so he opens his mouth and begins to stammer_, _something between _well, I guess, uhm_ and _alright, yeah_ and _should go I s'pose _and it's all very, very typical and very, very unnecessary. 

And he takes a few steps back and turns on his heel and hurries out of the shop without another word. 

And it isn't until later, when he's back in his flat with his skin still burning (sweet temptation), that he realizes there's no painting to be found. 

And with a positively agonized expression, he looks toward the ceiling and sighs.

(Bad) luck of the devil.

* * *

The thing is, Crowley has no experiences with hugs. Demons, in general, don't care for them. And for the longest time, Crowley hadn't either. 

But Aziraphale really did look so _awfully_ huggable and _surely_ it would have to feel good, all that angelic love and comfort and simply having someone to lean on and forget about all the (mis)deeds of the day and of course this was all a _completely_ absurd and _utterly_ abominable pipe dream for a demon to have, but then again, sins had been his specialty, after all. 

One time, they had come close. 1941, saving Aziraphale and all that entailed, lift home, business as usual:

“Here we are, angel. The old bookshop.”

But Aziraphale hadn’t moved. 

“I want to thank you again,” he had said. “For saving me back there.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Oh, but I want to, you see. You saved me from a lot of trouble.”

“And paperwork.”

“Yes, that too.”

And then Aziraphale had opened the door and left the car and Crowley, for whatever reason, had done the same, and Aziraphale had walked around the front and Crowley, for whatever reason, had done _the same_. And there they had stood, full of expectations but completely still, completely silent, and the angel had stepped forward and Crowley had hoped, hoped for whatever was to come, and Aziraphale finally looked like he would defeat heaven and all its rules, Crowley could sense it, something like rebellion. Until it had disappeared. Until the angel had taken a step back and watched Crowley with apologetic eyes. 

“So long, dear boy,” he had said and left. 

Yes, so long. 

* * *

Crowley should have expected it, the knock on his door, and yet he’s stirred from his thoughts in quite unprepared fashion. 

(The fact that Aziraphale is knocking in the first place has nothing to do with being unable to open a door and everything to do with not wanting to startle a very confused demon.)

Crowley opens the door with a snap of his fingers and the angel stands there and looks positively angel-like and he’s holding a certain painting and it’s all a bit awkward simply because Crowley has to fight the urge to grin like an idiot and go straight for another hug.

(Aziraphale wouldn’t mind in the slightest. He could hug Crowley for the next six millennia and be perfectly content.)

“You forgot something at the shop,” Aziraphale says and waits to cross the threshold until Crowley nods at him.

There’s three responses that rest on the tip of the demon’s tongue:

  1. “Hugging you felt like salvation.”
  2. “Please don’t leave. Stay the night. Stay forever.”
  3. “I’ve been in love with you for six thousand years.”

He goes with a rather flat _thank you, angel_ instead. 

(Aziraphale understands, still.)

When the angel steps forward and hands the painting back to him, their fingers brush in the gentlest of ways and Crowley knows what Eve must have felt like suddenly. Apple and all. 

"You left a bit hastily,” Aziraphale notes. Not accusatory. More like he lost something quite dear to him. Like he’s missed out. 

"Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize." He observes Crowley with something very close to worry, reaches out but withdraws his hand before touching him. "Did it hurt?"

Not. 

Like. 

_That_. 

"No."

"That's good."

Crowley nods, full of longing, full of ache. 

"Look angel, it's late."

Aziraphale smiles. (How dare he.)

"We're celestial beings. Time doesn't matter to us."

(Six thousand years still feel _damn_ long if you ask Crowley.)

"Maybe not. Been a long day, though." 

"Has it?"

"Feels long."

Aziraphale takes a step back, his hands folded behind his back now. Like he’s forcing himself not to touch the demon. 

"I'll better go then. Just one more thing."

"And what’s that?”

"We never went on that picnic."

"What?”

(The look of confusion on Crowley’s face is, of course, completely fake. Holy water. Going too fast. Yes, he remembers a picnic alright.)

“1967. I suggested we’d go on a picnic some day.”

“Right, yeah.”

(He’s a bad liar, too.)

"How about tomorrow?"

Crowley thinks between the hug and the picnic proposition, he needs about a month of sleep to get his mind back on track.

“Sure, why not.”

“Splendid. Then it’s a date.”

“Yeah, sure, it’s...what did you just say?”

“A date. Isn’t that what the humans call it? I’m rather sure they do.”

“A date implies romance, angel.”

“Yes, quite right. A date it is then.”

And with a final smile and a quick wave Aziraphale turns and shuts the door behind him. 

And Crowley, poor clueless Crowley, has suddenly forgotten about sleep altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always appreciated!


	5. What Are You So Afraid Of?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments have been nothing short of wonderful and I'd like to thank you all for your feedback. Here's the next chapter. Enjoy!

Crowley is, by any possible definition, in every sense of the word, a mess. 

He's pacing and contemplating and shouting at plants and replaying that last conversation in his head over and over, trying to hold on to the last rational thoughts before his mind implodes. 

A date. Romance. Dear God. 

(She can't help him now, either.)

There is, of course, the fact that Crowley has been thinking about the possibility of a chance of maybe and perhaps sharing that particular picnic if the circumstances allowed and if Heaven and Hell would leave them alone and if Aziraphale didn't forget about the idea and if the world didn't end and really, that had all seemed highly improbable and so he didn't have to worry all that much about what would happen and how we would react if the invitation was actually reiterated and how Aziraphale would look and what they would talk about and what the location would be, St James Park or the bandstand or someplace else entirely, and what it would feel like, a setup like that, with the angel all to himself and the nightingales singing.

Now, the reality of it is perfectly overwhelming. Now, he's caught somewhere between elation and a mental breakdown. 

With his fingers trembling, he picks up the painting one more time and stares at it, tears gathering behind his tinted glasses.

_But it did remind me of you. And me, of course. Together. _

Determinedly, he walks into the kitchen, puts the frame on the counter and starts assembling bowls and ingredients. 

A picnic. A miracle. 

He only has a few hours. Least he can do is prepare some snacks. 

* * *

Three crucial facts about Crowley's baking:

First, puff pastry is his specialty.

Second, he's obsessively secretive about it.

Third, he started baking for one reason and one reason only. 

That reason owns a bookshop, a pair of nifty reading glasses and has a fondness for sweets. 

* * *

"Hello, Crowley. Beautiful day, isn't it?" 

"Suppose so." 

Crowley takes a deep, encouraging breath and steps into the shop. 

"I brought something." He hands Aziraphale a box and watches as the angel opens the lid to reveal its contents. There's a spark in his eyes as he spots the assortment of pastries. 

"Oh, these look scrumptious. Where did you get them?"

"Made them myself, actually," Crowley mumbles. 

"You _what_?" 

(Aziraphale's reaction to baked goods — his tone and his facial expression and his heart leaping — is strikingly similar to a certain demon hearing about a flaming sword the angel had given away. Figures.)

"I made them. It's nothing."

"This is much more than _nothing_, Crowley. I didn't know you had an interest in baking. You never said a thing."

"Yeah, well. Don't get too excited, angel. I'm not going to let you take advantage of my kitchen skills." 

(He would. In an instant.) 

"Any other hidden talents I should know about?" Aziraphale inquires and there's something in his voice that Crowley would almost categorize as suggestive. 

"Let's see how this whole thing goes."

"Well, better get started then. Shall we?" 

* * *

They decide on St James Park because it's served as a perfectly lovely meeting spot for centuries and because it allows for a nice walk around the lake should they be interested in spending more time together once the food runs out. 

(They will be.) 

It's Aziraphale who has brought a blanket and a proper picnic basket, something from another time, something out of a Georges Seurat painting, and they find a secluded spot near a tree right by the water, make themselves comfortable. 

"You came prepared," Crowley notes as Aziraphale spreads out all kinds of treats around them. 

"What good is a picnic without a proper culinary foray into, well, diverse snack culture."

Crowley reaches for a pretzel and takes a bite. 

"Sunday in the park with Aziraphale," he teases. 

The angel's eyes light up at the reference.

"Have you developed a liking for Sondheim musicals as well?" 

"Nah. Still the old bebop for me, angel. Saw the program at your store the other day, though."

"_Look at all the things you've done for me_."

"What?"

"It's a lyric from the show. _Look at all the things you've done for me. Opened up my eyes. Taught me how to see. Notice every tree_."

"Huh. Well, I noticed that tree we are sitting under. Pretty good tree, too." 

"It is. Lovely spot we've found here. I could stay for hours."

"Why can't we? We have nowhere to be, do we?"

"Tempting me to indulge in sloth, I see. Foul fiend."

"I am a demon. Just doing my job."

"You've certainly done your fair share recently."

"What do you mean?" 

"Oh Crowley, we've seen an awful lot of each other these past few weeks. All seemed a bit too much of a coincidence. The prolonged traffic jam. The spontaneous bakery visits."

The demon's eyes widen in surprise behind his glasses. 

"You noticed?" 

"I had my suspicions. It was just a bit obvious at times."

"It wasn't _that_ obvious," Crowley says and he's positively pouting now. "You never seemed to mind."

"Exactly right, dear boy." Aziraphale's smile is bright and affectionate. "I didn't."

* * *

Hours later, Crowley has stretched out across the blanket and closed his eyes as Aziraphale, sweet Aziraphale, sits and watches him, softly runs his fingertips through the demon's hair every now and then, listens to the nightingales sing and bathes in this newfound happiness.

(Crowley doesn't comment on any of it. He's afraid that if he moves, Aziraphale will withdraw his hand and _that_, Crowley thinks, would be an utmost shame.)

* * *

They do go for that walk around the lake. Quite predictably so.

"Nightcap?" Aziraphale asks when they finally return to their spot.

Crowley only nods. 

"Lead the way, angel."

* * *

It's late when they get back to the bookshop and it's even later when Crowley tells Aziraphale that it's time for him to leave because clearly, at some point, the angel must grow tired of him and he doesn't want to overstay his welcome. 

(It's all in his head, of course. Had Crowley looked closely, he'd have seen Aziraphale's pleading expression.)

"I had a wonderful time today," Aziraphale tells him and it sounds like _please don't go, not yet. _

(If only Crowley would _listen_.)

"Me too."

"Maybe we could do it again some time." 

"Yeah, sure."

Crowley is already reaching for the door when Aziraphale stops him one last time.

"Can I ask you one more thing, Crowley? Before you leave?"

"What is it?"

(Somehow he already knows.)

"What are you so afraid of?" 

(_Why are you always the one leaving? Why, why, why?_)

And Crowley sees it suddenly, sees Aziraphale's vision of their future, sees another picnic, and another, sees a walk in the park, sees something like waking up together, sees their shared history, sees all of it reflected so vividly in the angel's eyes. 

Until it fades. Until the flames appear, and the screams, and the smell of burning books and _someone killed my best friend_. 

It's one thing. Just one thing that terrifies him. 

"Losing you."

And Aziraphale watches as Crowley bows his head and leaves the shop. 

* * *

The problem is that Crowley's mind remains a doubtful, uncertain place. Even with all that has occurred. 

He remembers the bad things much more frequently than the good things, he remembers the tragedies and the loss and the pain, and it's Aziraphale that makes him forget about these dark parts, these broken parts, these _fallen_ parts, it's Aziraphale who believes in him still, who trusts him, who cares for him. 

(Who loves him.)

It's what Crowley wants to hold on to. It's what he wants the future to look like now that the world hasn't ended. 

They're not in danger anymore, their earthly existences not in peril. 

They have nothing to lose. 

Things will be fine. 

And so Crowley, with his tempting impulses prevailing and all fears forgotten, finally, finally, finally decides: _Oh, what the_ _hell_. 

And so he turns around and he knocks again and he waits for Aziraphale to open the door.

"What is it, Crowley?"

"I forgot something."

And Aziraphale looks a bit confused and a bit wistful. 

“What did you—“

And then the demon kisses him. Fully and sweetly and urgently and _six-millennia-of-longing-in-the-making-y_. And oh, it's wonderful. And it’s a little desperate. And it’s perfect.

And it takes another eternity for Crowley to pull away. 

“That. I forgot to do _that_,” he tells the angel. A little out of breath and completely full of wonder. 

“Yes. Would have been a real shame, had you forgotten.”

“Terrible shame, yeah.”

"We should probably try again, dear boy. For good measure."

And Crowley, fool in love he is, simply grins. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, they've certainly waited long enough. Absolute idiots.


End file.
